


holding you closer than most

by forcynics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Childbirth, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcynics/pseuds/forcynics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is the one by her side through secrets and pregnancy, and he is the one who holds her hand as she brings their son into the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holding you closer than most

She does not hesitate before she brings the cup to her lips and drinks the potion that will kill the baby growing inside of her. Robert’s baby, not hers. She wants no claim to anything of his anymore, nor will she allow him anything of herself, especially not this; she feels only a relief so intense she must sit down.

And when Jaime asks her later if she is alright, she arranges her mouth in a tight smile and says that yes, she is. It isn’t a lie, though the potion tasted awful, and left an aftertaste that stayed with her far longer than any guilt. But she doesn’t tell him that part.

 

 

 

 

 

She drinks different potions the next time, and they taste sweeter. Or so she tells herself, because these potions are nurturing the child inside of her instead, the child that is all of her and none of Robert. All of Jaime too, she reminds herself, and imagines golden locks of hair and her baby winning tourneys all across the Seven Kingdoms.

It is in the rare moments when she is all alone that her old fears come creeping back, and she curves her hand over her stomach protectively. _You were nothing more than a lying old hag_ , she thinks, when she wakes from dreams of blood and the darkness of a musty tent and the rasp of an old woman’s voice, and she is glad no one is there to see her shiver.

She imagines the future fiercely when she pushes those thoughts away, imagines her son sitting on the Iron Throne, when Robert is dead and gone. It’s the one shame, that he’ll never even realize what she accomplished.

 

 

 

 

 

It feels like a triumph regardless, as she carries the babe within her, fiercely determined to bring him into the world healthy and perfect and hers. Hers and Jaime’s. She had not made the same mistake again with Robert, as she assured her brother when she gave him the news. She thinks he was relieved too – his expression when she tells him she is certain she is carrying _his_ child seems to her the same as what she felt when she killed Robert’s inside of her. The relief must have looked the same in her features as it does in his, and she does not think of how very different the circumstances are.

And as Cersei’s stomach swells and simple movements become more and more difficult, she passes time in bed remembering that look in Jaime’s eyes when she told him – almost awed (almost _afraid_ , but she does not think of that part).

 

 

 

 

 

She feels something give way inside her, one day when she is taking a walk down the hall with one of her maids. Suddenly, there is liquid spilling down her legs and the younger girl goes into a panic, fluttering about her to get them back to the bedchamber and sending a guard to fetch Maester Pycelle. Cersei is the calm one, head held high, hands folded securely around her stomach, even as it clenches tight as she has to grit her teeth. _I’ll hold you in my arms soon, my little lion cub_ , she thinks, and steels herself for what comes now. She is ready for this; they both are. (She is scared too, scared because she does not know what to expect, scared for her babe once it leaves the safety of her womb for the wide, dangerous world).

Pycelle arrives quickly, and the midwives with him, flocking into the chamber with water and mixtures and a hundred soothing sayings between them that do nothing to soothe her. But Cersei doesn’t acknowledge the knot growing in her throat; she is strong and proud and she is ready for this, wants this more than she can ever remember wanting anything before. The knot loosens when the door opens again and Jaime is there, shouldering his way inside, to _her_ side. She’s already been told that Robert has left to go hunting, and feels almost giddy for a moment, certain that this is the way it is supposed to be: her brother here and Robert far, far away.

The midwife in charge deigns to go against this, raising her eyes to look at Jaime, her intent clear. “You are not allowed to be in here now, Ser,” she tells him. “We will send for you when the child is born, but for this you must leave.”

Jaime is already gripping her hand, or she is gripping his, clinging it to it tightly. It is the one sign that she is not as calm as she is trying to appear. Jaime does not release her hand, only tilts his head and smiles a dangerous smile at the midwife. “And which of you girls are proposing to try and keep me out?” he asks, and receives no argument.

 

 

 

 

 

After that, Cersei is ashamed that she loses some element of comprehension as to what is happening. The midwife is instructing her to push, and push, and push, and finally declaring she can see the crown of the babe’s head – and Cersei imagines a very different crown fleetingly. The other girls have their hands on her arms, and have smoothed her hair back from her forehead, so many hands are on her body, but the only one she is aware of is Jaime’s, which she still has not let go of.

There is more pushing, her muscles clenching deep inside her, and so much pain, but the noises that spill out of her throat are more akin to growls than screams. She is a true lioness, bringing her little lion cub into the world, and she already feels ferociously protective of the child. _Hear me roar_ , she thinks, and continues to push, and growl, until something inside of her seems to release, and a sharp cry splits through the noise of the room, and Pycelle is saying it’s a boy, her child is a boy, her son, her perfect little lion cub.

“Let me hold him,” she demands, disliking how weak her voice sounds, so unlike her previous growls, even as she thrusts her arms out imperiously – frantically. The babe is being wrapped in linens, and she’s struggling to sit upright in the bed, dizzy and desperately, needing to hold him in her own arms. He is passed to her, _her son_ , and she makes a quiet “Oh” sort of noise, an entirely different type of knot forming in her throat, unlike any other sensation she’s known.

 _My son_ , she thinks, torn between wanting to hold him tighter to her chest and being afraid for how delicate and _small_ he seems. He is hers, though– he belongs to her more than anything else in the world, and she loves him with the certainty she has only ever loved Jaime with. Her brother and she came into this world together, and now she has brought their son into this world too.

She thinks _I will keep you safe_ , but she is terrified that it will be a lie.

 

 

 

 

 

It is not long before she realizes how truly exhausted she is, her arms starting to grow tired, her son already feeling heavy. She doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to pass him off to one of the midwives. When she glances up at Jaime, he looks as if he might offer, but there is uncertainty written into his face, in lines that she’s never noticed before and briefly wonders if she shares. Jaime is used to holding swords, though, not babies, and it could raise suspicion besides, so she shakes her head before he even opens his mouth, and settles back against the cushions.

Cersei refuses to succumb and close her eyes, though. She doesn’t want to look away from her son – or Jaime, who has not moved from her side. Jaime and her son, their son. Everything she loves is in this room, all of her. Her twin and her little lion cub.

“Joffrey,” she announces quietly, and Pycelle looks over to her. She juts out her chin. “That is his name.”

The Grand Maester’s gaze remains on her for a moment, and then he nods. “Hail Joffrey Baratheon,” he intones solemnly. “First of his name, and Heir to the Iron Throne.”

And even with exhaustion hanging over her, Cersei still manages to feel a pang of anger at that name, _Baratheon_ , as it is attributed to the babe in her arms, her little lion cub, her perfect Lannister son.

 

 

 

 


End file.
